Foof! I rocked David Bowie Day a little too much on Friday, the 18th day of 2008. (hee) I convinced an entire bar that it was officially David Bowie Day and the manager obliged my request and played all my Bowie cds. It was great fun and I wish you were all there. It’s nice to leave and get “Happy David Bowie Day” from 30 people you don’t even know. I wonder if they will be pissed when they find out that it’s not completely official. And by ‘completely official’ I mean outside of my own head and the select few who read VeggieM. Meh, who cares?
So this weekend I took note of a few things. Everyday is an epiphany for me.
I’m never going to use the term, “Doggie Bag” at a restaurant again. I’m not sure what I would be taking home.
If you hit someone’s house with a golf ball, they get pissed. Even though the stupid assholes bought a house right on a course where people hit hard white balls with clubs and have the accuracy of Stevy Wonder with a dart.
Patron tastes better with an orange slice. I can’t explain it but it does.
I gave blood on Saturday and the nurse(?) told me that the stick would feel like a little bee sting. If that is supposed to calm me down, why do people go bat-shit crazy when bees are around?
On the same topic of giving blood, when the ears start popping, you have about twenty seconds before you take an involuntary nap.
Smelling salts hurt the nostrils.
An older black woman said I was “Fly”. I don’t know what that means, but I like it.
David Bowie’s character in the movie Labyrinth isn’t Jarrod. His name is Jareth. Dude still has funny pants.
That’s pretty much it. My weekend was uneventful by many people’s standards. How was yours?
I’m starting something and I need your help. This time of the year is really short on holidays and I end up falling into the “too excited for Halloween too early” dilemma that happens every August. So I am going to combat that by revising the calendar and adding my own holidays to get excited for. Today is David Bowie Day. Is it his birthday? I don’t think so. I just declare that today, the eighteenth day of 2008 to be international David Bowie Day.
(the worst drawn party hat ever)
So this is where you come in. I want you to pick a day on the calendar and create your own holiday other than your own birthday. I will put it into my Outlook calendar and it will remind me a week before the day arrives. Then I will write a whole post dedicated to your holiday and we can all celebrate together.
So for now, you can listen to my favorite David bowie song, “Ashes to Ashes”. And tonight I am going to rock the Labyrinth and poke fun of Jarrad’s hilarious horse riding outfit, minus the horse. Happy David Bowie Day!
I am not dead! Sorry it has been so long. Work and life has been a real pain as of late but that is neither here nor there. What does “here nor there” mean anyway? I say that all the time but until I wrote it I just never thought about it. “To shake a stick at” is another one. I have never shaken a stick at anything in my life, much less many things.
What were we talking about? Oh yeah, so life has been a bag of dicks but that’s not your problem. I am going to share a feel good memory about the beach because I miss it and I want to take a virtual trip. You are invited so don’t forget the beer, sunscreen, blanket and alkeselzer tablets for the seagulls. Just kidding.
So here we are at the beach house in Sea Isle City, NJ. I have to admit that right when we arrive the clock will be ticking for the trek down the street to the shore. But I know that we will have to do the lame job of unpacking the car, putting away all the food, making the beds, and opening all the windows to air out the vacant home. But little do you know that I have already cracked open the first of twenty Budlights that will be consumed before the end of the day. I am sorry but it is already half way done and I can’t stop the cold flow of alcoholic vacation goodness.
Finally it is beach time! We will be in our respected suits, yours much cooler than mine I am sure. But it’s fine because you can walk far ahead of me. I will take the a chair, the cooler, the radio and you can grab the other chair , blankets and bag full of the extra items like books, magazines, lotion and my emergency swim trunks. It’s a long story but one time I lost mine in the waves. The beach house never seemed so far away. I’ll take the heavy stuff because I am already on beer number four and that’s about the time when the term heavy means nothing.
The walk to the shore is less than a block but it’s a tough one when you refuse to wear flip flops. I have a thing about having sand rub in between the flip part of the flop. So that means my virgin feet will be scorched from not only the black topped road but also the loose sand at the beginning of the trail over the dunes. You will be behind me watching my high steps that would embarrass even Rick Moranos. But soon all the pain in the feet will fade as we peer over the top of the dune and the breeze from the ocean hits the face and the crashing waves muffle all the sounds of pedestrian traffic. We made it.
Finding the perfect spot to set up camp is always a challenge, especially when the feet are hovering around 400 degrees Celsius and possibly full of shells. It’s important not to be down wind of cigar smokers, away from possible football game outbreaks, at least 50 yards from any kid and not around old people who don’t like beer drinking and the tendency for impulsive dance. On top of all that, I am the type who will be there until the tide comes in so we will have to find a lunar gravity friendly zone. It takes a minute but when the perfect spot is found, all will be right with the world.
Off comes the shirt and on comes the suntan lotion! Most people will use a generous amount of SPF 70 for their first exposure to the summer sun but not me. I don’t believe that putting on a liquid shirt everyday of vacation will give you the true sense of the beach. I like having a little sunburn to let me know the next day as I take 15 minutes just to put one leg in the shower, that I have gone 100 percent in my relaxation. Just call me melanoma head.
Well, the blankets are laid out, the chairs are unfolded, the cooler is set, we are lathered with SPF and sun attractor, and the radio is on. Now for the pivotal moment when I introduce you to my mixed tape that has been with me on many beach vacations. This tape signifies that summer is here, we are on vacation and at the beach. If I ever lost it I may go camping in the woods for the rest of my life and never see another ocean again. Here is a sample of it. It’s a must for the beach and you have to listen.
The Monroe’s “What Do All The People Know”. My god I love this song. It will cause me to dance so if there is any shred of dignity that you may have, you may want to take that time to hunt down the Lemon Ice cart.
“Tenderness” from General Public is such a feel good song. Don’t know why this symbolizes summer but it does.
I wish this wasn’t the theme song for Look Who’s Talking because I love this song and I hate Kristy Alley. I can’t put my finger on it but I believe the synthesizers in this song is a symbol of 1985 at the beach. Or Pete Townshed’s huge nose. It must be murder when that guy has a head cold.
So the tunes are set and now it’s time to soak in the rays. This will last for approximately thirty minutes before I am compelled to run into the surf as if I was on fire. I won’t get out until either I have ingested too much saltwater or I need another beer. But I am guilty of not paying attention as I swim around the surf and before you know it the tide has pulled me 100 yards down the coast. This is a little confusing when trying to find the beach blanket. Last time I had to actually go out on the street to figure out what avenue number I drifted to. I may need you to keep an eye out for me. I’ll be the grown man with one arm floaty so it’ll make it easier for you.
There is one thing about salt air, it induces quite a hunger. I think a couple hours of beach fun will work up an appetite for turkey sandwiches, chips and Hi-C Echto Cooler. There has to be a break in the copious amount of Bud Light. The only problem I have with eating at the beach is that no matter how hard I try, I will always get the crunching of sand grains with whatever I am chewing. I will almost always touch something sandy and put my hand in the potato chip bag. It’s just a fact. I will also have sand on my beer can rim. Blech!
After we eat our sandwiches like they were our first meal in weeks it’s nap time. I can dig taking a nap on the beach. There is something that is so soothing and lulling about the ocean waves. But never far from my mind is a seagull shitting on my face. You may think this is an irrational fear but I saw it happen to my uncle. Yeah it was funny as hell but it could have been anyone of us. From then on I sleep with a hat on.
So the restless sleep is finished and it’s time to crack another beer. I think by that time it should be at least beer number 11. That sounds about right. Do you know what else it is time for? Velcro catch! I know this is sissy catch but with the wild pitches I have been known to throw, it is far better to hit an old lady in the head with a tennis ball than a real baseball. I’m kind of like a high strung dog. You will have to decide when this game is up. I can throw pretend pop ups all day.
I think by now it will be time for one final rinse in the ocean to clean all the sand from the suit’s waist line and pack it up. There is still dinner to go to and a boardwalk to walk. It will be a good possiblity that I will shake the blankets and towels up wind causing another trip to go rinse off. But that is a lesson that is easily forgotten over a whole year. By now the first sign of sunburn starts to show. I always check by pressing my hands to my stomach to see the print. Yep. I’ll be sunburned.
The greatest thing about the beach house is the outside showers. I love showering outside. Actually being naked outside is a good thing. This is the only time I can get away with it, legally. I’m sure the familiar sting on the thighs from the sun exposure will be apparent but that can be combated by two more beers, a shot of Patron and a little aloe. I know I committed to the sunburn but shit, I’m not trying to kill myself.
We will have to pace ourselves for first night because there is still a few more to go. I think after a great dinner, buying shot glasses and airbrushed shirts on the boardwalk we will go back and crank up the stereo. Then sit on the front deck with a few beers and meet the neighbors by playing Billy Idol way too loud. It has always been an ice breaker for me. Hopefully this time it will not include a police introduction as well.
So that’s our virtual beach trip. I say we do this for real. How ‘boucha?
I maybe alone on this, even though I am praying I am not, but for some reason or another I wanted a Care Bear when I was a little kid. In the early/mid eighties these stuffed bears were quite the fad and girls as well as boys of my age had to have one. I think the same held true for Pound Puppies, Teddy Ruxpin and My Buddy, because I remember at least putting a few of these things on my Christmas wish list. Maybe there was a gender identity crisis among kids my age because a Pound Puppy and Battle Damage He-Man were neck and neck for best gift. Regardless, I wanted a Care Bear and I had no shame in asking for one. I take that back, begging for one.
Now I wasn’t a fruity kid or anything. I played in the mud, was the king of four square, liked bugs and sharks, was pretty sure I was Luke Skywalker for a while and had every GI Joe figure known to man but I also followed the fads. When Jam shorts were in style I wore them. When Yo-Yo’s emerged from the shadows of the fifties in the fifth grade I learned how to “walk the dog”. When Rebok Pumps were a must, my poor Dad shelled out $100 so I could inflate my sneaker tongue. And when a cartoon about Bears shooting care symbols off their stomachs meant every kid, no matter what gender, had to have a stuffed bear I was no exception.
I don’t believe I really wanted a Care Bear. I think it was more the idea of blending in. I worked pretty hard at being another face in the crowd and the last thing I wanted was unneeded attention. Not having a brother or a sister telling me I was an idiot all the time left me very sensitive to the ridicule of my peers. If there was ever name calling I usually left feeling confused saying, “I don’t understand how they can’t see that I am fucking awesome. My mom and dad always say that.” But I digress, if having a dippy bear would assimilate me than so be it. I added it to the ’85 Christmas wish list.
So Christmas finally came. Just like any other kid of my age it was a day that capped the year. If the two super powers of the Cold War decided to nuke each other it damn well better be in January because Christmas was not to messed with. That year I felt I was owed a few things. It was great to have a 7 year old sense of entitlement. But that year also came with a curve ball. The much anticipated 5am walk to the den to see the presents under the tree was quickly defused . Yes, the presents were there, the tree was still plugged in and the smell of scotch tape still hung in the air but there was a peculiar being sitting in front of the tree. I stared at it and with more time passing it became apparent that this was what it was. I got a homemade Care Bear.
It just so happened that the year Care bears made their debut to the toy market my aunt took up stitching for a hobby. I am positive that when the wish list was shared she took full advantage of the opportunity and volunteered to make it. For some reason my mom’s side of the family really like to make their own things. Now making your own chair, dress, desk, or canoe is cool but you can not get away with making the most popular toy in America from scratch. I know I sound caddy but let me describe it for you. Keep in mind I was a little dick of a kid. I’m better now that I’m 30.
Fist of all, he (it was a boy) was stuffed with styrofoam balls much like a bean bag chair. When hugged it made a noise that let you know your bear is surely dead. It was also clear that my aunt did very little research on the Care Bears because on the chest of my bear was not a heart or a four leaf clover or a cloud or even a rainbow. It was a truck. My bear had the “Care Bear Stare” of a truck. I don’t know what that would do in a care bear emergency. Maybe tow the cloud car? My God, I think I remember too much about these gay things….
I believe the best/worst feature on my Amish Care Bear was the proportioned head to body ratio. He had a head four times the size of his torso. Looking back on it I guess he would be a hydrocephalic bear but even then, it was a hard pill to swallow just knowing that if any one of my friends saw this my quest to be invisible would be over. Instead of being the nameless face in the crowd I would be an outcast. Just me and big-head truck bear. Oh the woes of an eight year old primadana.
The whole morning I was constantly distracted by my hydrocephalic homemade bear. The joys of new stuff was great but my eye was always drawn back to him. Later that night I retired to my bedroom without the protection of a Care Bear truck stare. Now that I am telling this story, I do feel like I was a little dick of a kid.
A week or so later I was back at school sharing stories of my new loot with my school chums. It seemed that everyone did pretty well but i had to tip the scale and proudly exclaim that not only did I get He-Man, GI Joe, an Ewok Village but I also got a Care Bear. Of course I got the unwanted attention of being the lucky kid with the most crap. It’s what mattered back then. So I wore that crown for a while. A while meaning until Friday. The teacher told us to bring in one thing for show and tell on Friday that we got for Christmas. I think you know where this is going.
I contemplated which toy I should bring in so I could still keep my meaningless position as the shittiest kid in school. I was stuck between the He Man on Battle Cat or my G.I. Joe tank with the bridge crossing thing on top. But I was oblivious to the fact that my Mom caught wind of Fridays events. As an active parent in my school she was what you called a “homeroom mom” and she had other plans for what I was going to show and tell about. When she asked me to show off my aunt’s impressionistic creation of a modern day Care Bear I quickly objected. This resulted in an order to take Truck Bear to school and that was final.
The morning of Friday I shuffled off to the school bus with book bag on back and retard bear in arm but before I got there I made the switch. I took out the books and paper bag lunch and tried to stuff the bear in the bag. No shit, the head was too big. After some frustrating stuffs I got him in and off I went. No one would be the wiser and I had a trusty Go-Bot in my pocket to show. It’s good to be humble when everyone already knows you’re the shit.
I wish I could remember how the rest of the day went but all I really remember was the show and tell event. If I had something extravagant to show off I would have been excited but I figured just a Go-Bot was nothing to raise your arm up so high that you would need to support it by your other arm behind the head. You know what I’m talking about. I sat through fifteen Care Bears, a few G.I. Joe’s and some Cabbage Patch dolls. So soon enough I went up to give a brief description of my robo-motorcycle but there was a look of confusion on my teachers face. I knew there was a problem about the time I got to “what I got for Christmas was…”. My Mom had informed the teacher ahead of time that I had a homemade bear that I was supposed to show the class. Ms. Simms (the teacher) asked, “Where’s your Care Bear, Billy?”. Sold out by the woman who gave me life.
I have had many embarrassing events in my life. When I was 16 I picked up my homecoming date and stepped in dog poop, only to track it into her parents house. I was running to class in college and tripped with my hands tucked in my book bag straps. My God, I spent an entire day mistaken for a retarded person at the Special Olympics. But that show and tell was my earliest memory of embarrassment. The long walk from the front of the classroom to my book bag is still as clear as yesterday. When I pried that huge head from my bag there was a gasp in the room and my efforts to be out of the lime light was ruined. Had I been quicker on my feet back then I would have told the class he was in fact a real Care bear. His name was Truck-Dar and was the evil sibling that didn’t live in the clouds with the rest of the bears but down in the fog….where he ate the bears that accidentally fell….. and he was a mechanic which explains his truck on his stomach….. and he was very smart….because his head is so big.
Well, I guess that would have made it worse. No, I stood up at the front of the class while Ms. Simms gave my monologue about how my aunt made this with her own hands. I looked around the class while the guys in the back held their heads down laughing and the girls curled there lips in disgust. And that’s when I began to feel bad for my Hydrocephalic Care Bear. Even at my weakest moment I thought, this was made for me. I began to drift from the fact I could be labeled as the kid with the freak bear and started taking pride in the fact that this was for me and me alone. I think that is pretty remarkable for an 8 year old only child.
I sat down at my desk and kept the bear with me the whole day. I no longer felt ashamed and found myself defending it to any snickers or jokes. That night the bear took guard on my bead to ward off any night terrors. He may be a deformed Care Bear but damn it, he was my deformed Care Bear.
Thanks Aunt Eileen. He was the best bear a guy could have. And he didn’t let the thing in my closet get me either.
I have always had a tough time completely understanding the link between Jesus Christ dying on the cross for our sins and chocolate bunnies. I’m a Catholic by birth and even though I sometimes find my faith in question I never forget that Easter is the one day you had better not miss church. I can blow off every other Sunday and watch football or something equally pointless but on Easter, God is taking role call. That’s where my Easter confusion comes to a head. When did bunnies and chicks start sharing the spotlight with my sins being forgiven? Look at this orgy of dysfunction.
I’m fairly certain that if the day of Easter had the ability to, it shit on this guys front yard. Just driving by it causes people to veer of the road in utter disbelief over the hundreds of inflatable bunnies and chicks. There is so much pastels on this property it looks like BearForce One was skydiving and had a catastrophic accident all over the yard.
Do you think that most of these inflatable rabbits and eggs are filled with exhaled bong hits? I do. I think in order to pull off this Easter horror house one has to be high or incredibly disturbed. I’m not talking triple coupon day at Michaels disturbed but Ed Gein disturbed. I bet everything inside the house is inflatable too. And that is enough to make me drive faster when passing this place.
An inflatable Peep for fuck-sake! Do you order these? Where would one buy such disturbing yard ornaments? Ask too many questions, I do. And that is a dangerous thing with people who have 4 foot bunnies hanging by their necks from both sides of the front door.
Sorry Jesus. I don’t know where we strayed but thanks for taking it in stride.
In other news I found Corey Taylor’s (front man for Slipknot) mother’s mask at Macy’s. It turns out she is the lead vocal for the home band in Iowa with the other mom’s of Slipknot. They call themselves Stitchknit. I kid, I kid.
You have to look sideways because I am weeetauted.
Casserole of Disaster 